He was conscious of a sudden wave of heat passing over him, of an odd shock that made his heart jump unpleasantly. He was looking at his own name, written on a battered envelope lying face upwards among the other litter. He picked it up and was astonished to see that his hand was shaking. The name was unmistakable. ‘P St J W Gyrth, Esq’, written clearly in a hand he didn’t know. He turned the envelope over. It was an expensive one, and empty, having been torn open across the top apparently by an impatient hand. He sat staring at it for some moments and a feeling of unreality took possession of
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